


and I'll become one with the waking hours

by wajjs



Series: Time after Time [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, M/M, Not Beta Read, Time Skips, immortal!jason, ways of mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 19:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Jason and his stages of grief.





	and I'll become one with the waking hours

**Author's Note:**

> ok I know I said I was done with this au but I LIED (to myself, I was in denial). there's one more story to come and hopefully with that one I will finally be done with this verse... hopefully.........
> 
> for context, I recommend reading the first fic that's part of this series!!! the second one would come after this one if we follow the timeline of the au,,

**and I'll become one with the waking hours**

It's simply that he’s tired. He’s tired of running, of hiding, because no matter how far in time and space he gets, he never gets away from this ever-growing loneliness. At first it had been bat-shaped, with big calloused hands on his hips, guiding him to bed. At first it had been big hands travelling his body with tremors from all the punches given like gifts on christmas. It had been those hands on him, holding him through it all. It had been those lips, always firm and sure, always reluctant to saying the right words, the needed ones.

At first it had been the first night Bruce had taken him to bed and neither had left till late afternoon of the next day, leaving behind only a handful of drops of blood. It had been his heart fucking up his mind because he _ had _ promised himself he’d _ stay away, _ he _ can’t _ do this, he can’t, and he had said so, cried atop the cross of Bruce’s shoulders and said _ I can’t do this alone. _

Bruce never replied. He didn’t need him to. He knew the answer all too well:

_ You have all the time in the universe to learn. _

Tim finds him chainsmoking sometime around 5pm so far from Gotham he isn’t sure how Tim found him while the earth is still freshly disturbed and nothing has rotten away. The thing is that Tim finds him and he lets himself be dragged back to the shithole he’s hiding himself in. The thing is that Tim finds him when he didn't want to be found.

He smokes for lack of knowing what else to do. He’s still smoking when he slips away the first chance he gets, Tim only partially distracted.

He’s nothing but a weak man when he slips effortlessly into Batman’s lonely shadow and fights beside him all night, only almost a year later. And after all that, in the cave, the cowl comes off and he sees Bruce’s face again, feels himself desperately trying not to cry. No one is there waiting to see if they need tending to. No tea has been served. No unyielding love for all of them. No warmth, no reassuring words, no steady-as-ever presence.

Nothing but an impossible empty space. He’s the fool who never got to say thank you. He’s the fool who never got to say take care, see you soon, goodbye. He's the fool he will always be.

“He asked to be beside you,” Bruce says and it’s too much, “said it wouldn’t do, leaving you alone.”

Through his tears, he still sees the movement Bruce makes to pause the endless security feed of the cave, leaving no trace of him breaking down. That is when it hits him, that this just might be love.

Pity he’s beginning to hate it.

  
  


One mission after another. In between going back and forth from Earth to space, Dick’s voice in his voicemail saying _ come home. _

  
  


He returns bloody, with all except one of his ribs either cracked or bruised and shadows taking residence under his eyes. He returns bloody, dirty, worn-out. Damian pushes him to the nearest shower as Duke calls Tim, calls Dick, calls and calls in the background, because they have all been looking for him.

They want to know what he’s been up to. They want to know where he’s been. Bruce looks at him in silence. Steph is the one to reach out first, punches him in the shoulder, pulls him in for a hug.

“Will you please stop insisting on doing this alone?” she asks just as Cass joins in on the hug and Dick slides closer to them, “You fucking idiot.”

His lips are pale and his cheeks are sunken in. He tries to touch his soul, whatever of it might be left, because it feels like there’s nothing of what used to be his flesh. It takes everything in him to return the hug. When he does, he doesn’t want to let go. Maybe if he holds on just a bit tighter no one else will have to leave. It’s only so bad he’s never been naive enough to believe that for more than a second.

  
  


Rain falls down on them. Blue and black and bright like life itself. Steph has yet to go back to wherever she needs to be and he’s someone who has long given up on having a place.

“Does it ever get any easier,” she says to no one in particular, doesn’t frame it as a question.

Something in him shakes. He’s not supposed to be the one outliving them. He’s not supposed to be here. He doesn’t want to be. But no matter how many times he tries, death never sticks to him, just to those around him.

“I hope it does,” Steph finishes with, traces the shapes carved in the stone of R, I, C, H, A-

“I’ll let you know,” he forces himself to reply, gazes upon her smile and bows to bring her purple flowers whenever he can.

  
  


“How many times?” Bruce asks out of nowhere while they are simply sharing the same bed. 

All the lights are on. He still watches every corner in case the shadows move.

“Jason,” Bruce says, so softly, brushes his scarred knuckles along his cheekbone, reminds him of his name.

“Yes?” Jason says, completely unarmed, knows he’ll be unable to lie this time.

“How many times have you tried?”

“I don’t know. Think I lost count once the number went over fifty-something.”

Always alone. There’s no sense in mourning the undying.

“Jason,” Bruce breathes, it’s such a painful thing to hear, “Jay.”

“I know,” he chokes out, feels small, feels helpless. “I’m holding the record for most deaths. Ain't that neat?”

  
  


One by two they go. He’s sometimes around. He’s sure to be away. Jason calls Steph’s old number, long unused, says to her that it’s as hard as always; never calls when Bruce’s turn comes next.

Damian looks at him as they stand in front of each other one last time. Jason thinks the League clothing looks good on him. The brat’s grown to be even more of a force to be reckoned with. He couldn’t be more proud.

“If you need me,” he says, staring into Damian’s eyes and thinks he sees something there, “you always know how to find me.”

Something must be wrong with their communication systems, though, because Jason waits and waits and waits for a call that never comes.


End file.
